


Schämen

by recrudescence



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick hadn’t actually batted his eyes at him, but it was as good an explanation as any for why Monroe kept practically rolling over for a treat each time Nick told him to jump. Lashes like that just weren’t natural on anything that wasn’t a Gancanagh.</p><p>Written in response to a prompt on <a href="http://grimm_kink.dreamwidth.org">grimm_kink</a>: Monroe has fleas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schämen

Adults, Monroe knew, weren’t supposed to sulk, but at least no one was around to judge him. That was probably the only upside to being quarantined.

It wasn’t that he had a predisposition towards fleas, no more so than anyone of non-Blutbaden lineage, but somehow it still seemed like a great indignity.

Especially next to Nick, because Nick had the awe-inspiring ability to waltz through a tornado, a hurricane, and a horde of hungry Ahuizotl and still look ready to take up residence on a magazine cover. That would give anyone in their right mind a little bit of a self-esteem issue.

Monroe had never actually seen this happen, but he could imagine it very easily.

Everything was Nick’s fault because Nick had had a very charming dinner date planned with Juliette and that had led to him batting his very charming blue eyes and _please, Monroe, just take a look and see if you can tell what’s going on_ because there had been reports of howling in the woods and people in the nearby subdivision reporting sightings of a big black dog. And _that_ was how he had ended up tromping through the forest, sniffing around both literally and metaphorically.

Nick hadn’t actually batted his eyes at him, but it was as good an explanation as any for why Monroe kept practically rolling over for a treat each time Nick told him to jump. Lashes like that just weren’t natural on anything that wasn’t a Gancanagh.

For the past few days, he’d been screening his calls and ignoring anything from Nick, but that could only last for so long since Nick had the most tragic blind spot when it came to social cues and couldn’t tell when his company wasn’t wanted. He really was a cop to his fingertips.

Inevitably, Nick showed up at his door and knocked for what felt like an hour. “Monroe? I know you’re home. Is everything okay?”

Monroe sighed and opened the door just a few inches, ready to tell Nick nothing had happened at all since he definitely wasn’t telling him, _It was a nice night, so I fell asleep in the woods and now I’ve got fleas._

Nick blinked at him. “Hi. Where’ve you been?”

“Long story. Long, boring story. You don’t need to hear it.”

“Okay…” Nick took a half-step forward as if to shoulder his way in. Monroe discreetly shifted his weight against the door. “Um. Can I come in?”

“I’m cleaning,” Monroe said quickly. “I don’t really want anything getting screwed up.”

“Did I screw anything up when you let me in that time you were repainting your wainscoting?”

“ _No_ , but that’s different.”

It was amazing how effortlessly Nick failed to take a hint sometimes. He actually ventured forward again. Monroe’s arm rippled and thickened as he braced the door against him, careful to keep his claws from scratching the wood. “This is why cops and Grimms get such a bad rap, man, you’re always so entitled.”

That did it. Nick held up his hands. “Sorry. I haven’t been able to get a hold of you lately, so I wanted to check on things.”

And there he went again, with the big eyes and the concern. Monroe wasn’t having that. “Yeah, that thing wanted me to check up on? Based on what you told me, I was wondering if it was a Freybug. A big black dog is their other form; superstitious people see them as a sign of doom.”

“Like a Grimm?”

“Dude, you can do many things and some folks definitely see you as a harbinger of death, but you can’t turn into a dog.”

“I mean Grim with one M. It happens in Harry Potter.” He smiled sheepishly, raking a hand through his very clean, very flea-less hair. Monroe contemplated throwing a flea bomb at him. “We used to read those books to Juliette’s nephew all the time.”

Monroe just closed the door.

He was regretting it within ten minutes.

Self-quarantining sucked.

Instead of adapting to it, he just ended up more paranoid than ever when left to his own devices. Every speck of link on his favorite duvet turned into a flea and he kept doing double takes at the freckles on his hands. A few days of setting off flea bombs, taking shower after shower, and vacuuming like a fiend were taking their toll and manifesting in various creative ways of feeling sorry for himself. It was hard not to be a little bitter. He tried so hard not to be an animal and this was how karma rewarded him. Years back, Monroe had taken up hatha yoga for a while and learned all about this sort of thing.

Resignedly, he channeled his energy into spraying down every surface and scrubbing hard in yet another shower. His mood, as anticipated, did not improve.

He changed into a clean shirt—white, the better to notice any renegade fleas—did a little pranayama breathing, and ate dinner in front of the TV instead of at the table because apparently being infested was turning him into an apathetic slob. Finally, he picked up his phone.

“A Gwyllgi, that’s what you mean,” he said when Nick picked up, which wasn’t quite apologizing but close enough for Nick to figure it out. “And there’s also a Kyrkogrim, which is a black dog that protects hallowed ground. So you and Harry Potter weren’t _totally_ off the mark.”

There was a pause. “Sorry I sent you on that for me. I should have waited to check it out myself.”

Monroe cringed inwardly. “No big. We both know the kind of trouble you get into on your own.”

“Are you okay?” Nick asked, like this was all water under the bridge.

“Yeah,” he lied, scrutinizing a spot on the coffee table and slapping a hand over what turned out to be a crumb. “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

One hour later, Nick popped up at his door again, this time with a basket.

Monroe squinted at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing red? What is that?”

“Nice to see you too.” Nick held it out with the pride of a grade-schooler in the show and tell spotlight. “A care package.”

So it was. Tea, dark chocolate, white socks, flea powder… Monroe’s gaze darted back up. “How did you know?”

“You were holding a can of Ultracide when I came by the other day.”

“Oh.”

“Juliette says fleas are attracted to white, so if you walk around in these and they stay clean then it’s a sign they’re clearing out.”

“You talked to her about this?”

“She’s a _vet_ ,” Nick said patiently. “She deals with this kind of thing all the time. The powder is completely nontoxic, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

Monroe didn’t bother confirming that he actually had been. “So she’s the only one who knows?

“Yeah, that and I changed my Facebook status to ‘hey, everybody, Monroe has fleas.’”

Nick probably really did have a Facebook page. Monroe took a moment to be horrified as he imagined him gleefully typing up statuses like “omg just learned how to take down a Hexenbiest lol!”

Even though Nick wasn’t _that_ much younger than him, sometimes Monroe still felt like he was dealing with a pup who hadn’t figured out how to fend for itself.

“I hate you, man,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” Nick told him. “Fleas happen. You’ve really been sulking hard, haven’t you?”

“I have not.”

“Yeah, you really have. If you close the door, I swear I’m just shoving everything through the mail slot.”

Monroe didn’t doubt that for a second. “I really can’t let you in. It stinks from flea bombs in here.”

Nick only shrugged. “You can crash with us for a few days if you want. Just until your place has had a chance to air out.”

“I’m not really a crashing-with-people kind of guy,” Monroe said truthfully. The last time he’d spent a been away from home had been for an horology convention in Seattle a year and a half ago. He’d spent the entire time fretting over the state of his territory.

Then again, Nick was local. And pretty good company, in spite of all his missteps. And still waiting for an answer. Monroe tucked the basket under his arm. “Um. Is that…cool with you?”

“Sure. I’ll tell Juliette and we’ll fix up the guest room.”

“Uh-huh.” Monroe looked him dead in the eye. “All I have to do in return is tell you everything I know about massive black dogs that may or may not be from Harry Potter land, right?”

Nick actually seemed a little abashed. “I guess it can’t hurt. You’re like a one-man library. It’s good having you around.”

“Flattery isn’t your thing, you know that? And you’re the one checking out the woods this time. See how you like it.”

“Fine,” said Nick. His mouth was twitching, but he at least had the grace not to call Monroe on his bluff. Maybe he really was learning. “Go pack and I’ll see you in a few. Juliette’s been feeding a stray cat that comes around sometimes; that’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

When Monroe closed the door on him this time, he was grinning.


End file.
